Melancholia
by queercyberpunk
Summary: HPDM. The War has changed everyone. Harry is damaged. Draco is disreputable. Both are merely existing. It takes misfortune to liberate them, and both fight through the tempest of reporters, magical murders, and remnants of their turbulent pasts.


::

Harry's sleep is fitful these days. His dreams are plagued by wretched images, putrid corpses and unblinking eyes. He tells no one of his nightmarish evenings. Instead he pours over books and drinks coffee and watches the sunrise with bleary eyes. He often times wakes and is convinced that Tom Riddle is standing at the foot of his bed. When he finds naught but the undisturbed bliss of his two-bedroom flat, he is still unconvinced. Sometimes he fears that when he sleeps he won't wake again, that he will die and this time he will not be resurrected. It's a foolish, unfounded fear; Harry knows this and reasons with himself. He uses intellectualism and sensibility to combat his irrational, childish dread, but it does little to soothe it. The only thing that helps, Harry finds, is Dreamless Sleep Potion. He's taken to brewing it on those nights when his anxiety attacks are particularly disconcerting, which are most nights.

The more he takes the brew, the less effective it is. The dreams savage through the cracks like water, unrelenting against an ancient dam. His kitchen reeks of alchemy, and the stench reminds Harry of the Hogwarts dungeons, and of Severus Snape. This only fuels his spiraling state. But still, he tells no one. He sees Ginny less and less these days, but finds that he is indifferent. Ron and Hermione, the engaged pair, are never seen without the other. Harry finds their soon-to-be-wedded bliss grating, but says nothing. He still meets them occasionally for drinks at the Burrow. They question his wearied appearance, but don't press the subject.

Harry longs to feel grounded. He tries with Ginny, to let her drag him back down into the Troposphere. He's even let her begin to skim the Daily Prophet for ads that boast of beautiful new homes. She's elated with her 'window-shopping' as she calls it, and she purposefully ignores Harry's inattentiveness in her elation.

He is so very, very tired.

It's a Tuesday when one of the worst nighttime fits occurs. He has a lingering hangover from the night before, which had entailed Firewhiskey with Ron and George. He is trying to sleep off the sluggish ache in his head, when the images came pouring into him. The dream is agonizingly familiar. He sees his Mother screaming, a flash of light, and then a wand turns on him. This time, when the vivid, greenish light spits from the end of the wand, he is not saved. His infantile self is helpless as he should have been and in an instant, Harry is falling. He is falling and spinning and he is dying. He smells dead flesh and burning hair. He is dying.

Harry wakes in a cold sweat, twisting savagely in his sheets. He gropes sightlessly for his spectacles and then throws himself from the stiff mattress. He feels as though he's on the receiving end of one of Hermione's Jelly Legs Jinxes, and he slumps against the wall for support. Dreamless Sleep…that is what he craves, but he hasn't any. Every curse he can think of slips off his tongue and a current of anger and frustration sweeps him up. To the kitchen…the kitchen, where the ingredients were sitting in their proper glass jars.

When Harry catches his reflection on a pot hanging from the stove, he is taken aback. Red, swollen eyes glare sullenly at him. His hair is a jungle and his cheeks are shaded with follicles of hair. He suspects he looks nearly as bad as he did during the War. His stomach swoops uncomfortably.

He fumbles with the ingredients and instead of pulling the ancient potions book from the floor, he trusts his memory. He made the draught enough to know, he assumes groggily. When Harry finishes an hour later, the potion is only a few shades lighter than its usual purplish eggplant hue. Purple, Harry recites to himself. And it was purple. Harry doesn't bother to check the overturned potions book. He ladles the mix into a flask and eyes the concoction needily. His bones are aching; the thrumming anguish rooted in his framework.

Before he climbs to bed, he takes a long swallow from the flask. He motions to place it on his bedside table, next to the picture that Mad Eye Moody had given him. The waving images of The Order of the Phoenix beckon cheerily at him through the night, ignorant that most of them will soon be dead.

Harry's hand slips and the flask falls with a resounding thud, the contents spilling. An even larger thud follows. Harry twitches and finally goes still.

He is so very, very tired.

::

In the months that followed the end of the war, the Wizarding World was in a state of repair. Bodies were counted. Shattered businesses and homes were pieced back together. These damages were met with a grim, knowing smile. The hardest times were over. And slowly, the world rights itself. Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor re-opens and is dubbed with a new title, Caldwell's Cold Creations. Life seeps back into the pubs and businesses. Warily, the world resumes. Nervous ten-year-old witches and wizards anticipate their first year at Hogwarts. The Daily Prophet takes to printing silly stories about the Weird Sisters, and the trivialities of pre-war days. They take a special interest in the personal life of one Harry Potter. He is in the paper nearly every day. The titles range from 'Harry Potter, Headed For Married Bliss' to 'The Boy Who Lived And His Addiction to Felix Felicis!' Protégés of Rita Skeeter flood the papers. The world is slowly forgetting the Second Wizarding War, tucking away the sorrow away neatly and folding the edges.

For some, the damage of the war is irreparable.

The Weasley family is still grieving. The Ministry of Magic has taken heavy casualties. Funerals are as abundant as weddings. The families of Death Eaters are reeling. Reputations dragged through the mud, ancient families without a penny to their names, property seized by the Ministry. The people desire vindication. The Ministry sought this vindication, and also sought to replenish their exhausted funds. Some families disappeared from England altogether, leaving their posh lives for Scandinavia, Germany, France, and even America. The Prophet is peppered with stories of the remaining Death Eater relations. The wives, the sons, the daughters. The vast majority of Voldemort's immediate followers had been killed. Some had even taken their own lives once word of the Dark Lord's death whispered along the battle-ravaged remains. The few left in hiding were soon to be flushed out by Aurors. Living relatives are left to bear the cross of their father's, brother's, mother's, or sister's sins. Though those remaining are not marked by the Snake Lord, they are marked with something that lived long after the flesh died. They are asterisked with shame.

Disgrace is forever etched onto Draco Malfoy. He will always be a Death Eater's heir.

Not like the Malfoy Estate has much to boast anymore. It had flourished under Lucius Malfoy's unholy pruning, and he had a green thumb for investment and connections. Soon the tenuous lines of association had snapped and the budding Estate wilted. Lucius' stint in Azkaban had forged the collapse of his Empire. Everything was toppling inward. The Malfoy family no longer had the funds to maintain their sprawling estate. It had later been seized by the Ministry, which had been carefully waiting for an excuse to rummage through the rich, elderly mansion. None were fazed by this self-righteous ransacking, and none complained. Some even scoffed and said that the Malfoys deserved to be carted onto the streets of London. Such talk is accepted and often times applauded. It made no difference that Narcissa had aided The Chosen One or that the family had been awarded reprieve. She will always be a Death Eater's wife. Lucius will never again be accepted by the stately vultures of the upper class, Draco will never finish his last year at Hogwarts, and he is banished to walk again through the impressive corridors of Malfoy Manor, the halls of his childhood.

::

"Ms. Weasley, I'd like to ask you a few questions!"

Ginny carefully weaves her way through the crowds that had gathered about the entrance of The White Swan, a new pub that had recently sprung up in place of Ollivander's. Ginny is loath to leave the cocoon of the Burrow these days. She spends most of her time practicing Quidditch, the rest of it worrying, and sometimes, treacherously enough, thinking alternative plans for her life. Anything left over is used to cheer up a somber Mrs. Weasley. Ginny is always badgered by reporters. Once word that Harry is in St. Mungo's hit the papers, they answered by swarming the Weasley family. Even Luna Lovegood could not evade the frenzy of reporters, and their determination to learn the truth of Harry's bedridden state. Ginny hates the reporters. She refuses to even touch a Daily Prophet anymore, for fear of reading another story about her being a gold-digging slag. She endures the prying eyes for Harry's sake, but sometimes she wonders if she can bear the whispers. She carefully places her toughest mask over her features, and pushes through the throng of people.

It's ironic, Ginny thinks sourly to herself. After the War and all the dangers Harry had faced in the past, now he is dreadfully ill. Not because of a spell, but of a poorly-brewed Dreamless Sleep Potion.

"Is it true that Harry was attacked by an ex-Death Eater?"

Ginny feels like hurling one of her world-class Bat Bogey Hexes into the whirlwind of bodies, but her hand only clutches tighter around her wand in her pocket. She remembers her school days longingly. It was a time where she and Harry were cocooned naiveté, desperately reaching for each other in the darker corners of Hogwarts, before her life became one great show to the press, and before her brother was murdered. She goes home to an empty bed. An ill Harry balanced in one hand, her loneliness balanced in the other, and her phantom third arm trying to hold the reporters at bay. She is exhausted. Frankly, she'd just like to tell everyone to bugger off. She startles herself when sometimes she even wishes to tell this to Harry. Though telling him to fuck off would be a bit a difficult seeing that the only movement he's made in the past four months has been a twitch.

"Have you broken Harry's heart, Ms. Weasley?" Chortles follow this satiric question. Ginny knows her face is coloring, and she feels the urge to scream rise in her chest. She viciously pushes it back down, and her only retort is to shove even more fiercely through the flashing cameras and Quick-Quotes Quills. Her chest feels as though a dragon is sitting on it.

No, you ignorant, loud-mouthed twits, Ginny thinks to herself, Harry is lying in bed, unresponsive, because he stirred clockwise instead of counter-clockwise.

::

Draco casts aside the paper with a curl in his lip. Whether this slight undulation indicates a sneer or a curve of cruel humor, one cannot be entirely sure. On the front page of the Daily Prophet is a picture of Harry Potter, his face is sallow and sunken. Not even close to the virile young Gryffindor that pervades Draco's memory. It must have been taken during the Death Eater Trials following the War. The headlines read: HARRY POTTER STILL IN ST. MUNGO'S. Although, Draco thinks with irritation, the cause of his illness is not included in the article. Draco skims the large block of text, but finds most of it to be rubbish. As usual, he thinks. The Prophet has not only taken to starting illicit rumors about War Hero Potter, but Draco has stumbled across several stories pertaining to him. None of them had been pleasant.

"May I see the paper, Draco?" Narcissa asks gently, her slim fingers buttering a scone. The pages rustle as Draco hands it over to her. "I see we are mentioned." Narcissa has read the section of theories on Potter's illness. She notes this with a frigid tone. The Prophet has been quick to point the finger at some of the remaining Death Eaters.

Draco counters with stony silence. The small granite table at which they sit is one of the few possessions still left in the house. It is a country estate that the Malfoys had bought pre-war. Draco had often spent his summers here. He vaguely remembers his thirteen-year-old self plotting new and creative ways to bypass the after-hours wards. They are planning to sell it, to alleviate the mounting debt. Narcissa and Lucius had received pardon from the Ministry, but their wands had been broken and they are forbidden to perform magic. It leaves them helpless, and there are few jobs they could undertake without the aid of magic. And yet the Malfoys are too proud to work alongside Muggles. As a result, they became housebound and a leech on remaining funds. There was a wordless agreement after the Lucius and Narcissa's pardon from Azkaban. Draco's parents are dead to the Wizarding World. And thus Draco undertook what little the Malfoys had left. He is the heir.

A wretched Death Eater's heir.

"Your ad is in the paper as well," Narcissa says colorlessly.

"I didn't notice." Draco's forced airiness is apparent. He'd been trying to sell this house for months. "Once it sells, I've arranged a flat for you, in London. It's suitable." Narcissa's nostrils flare with disgust.

"I'm sure it is." There is a cutting quality to her words. She has no room to complain. She is without magic, affluence, or power. Although Draco is disinclined to admit it, she is as helpless as any other Muggle woman. To say this to her, however, would be an insult of the highest degree. "How long until this," Narcissa gives a sweeping gesture, "is sold?"

"Not long." The price for the lavish dwelling is obscenely low.

"Superb," Narcissa bites out tartly.

::

Ron awakes with hunger gnawing at his insides. His back aches. A dull thudding resounds through his skull. He pushes himself from the aged couch and makes his way across the battlefield of dishes, overturned books, and clothes. He makes the perilous venture to his bedroom, where the bed has been unmade and sheets unchanged for an unspeakable amount of time. Harry's illness is the well-timed blow that finally cracks Molly Weasley. Normally when she grieves, she cleans and cleans and cooks and cooks. But after she hears of Harry's accident, she loses all motivation to clean. Instead she ignores the chores and leaves the house to sink into disarray. The Weasleys that still reside in the Burrow are left to fend for themselves during mealtimes, while Mrs. Weasley quietly plays her Celestina Warbeck records over and over again. Ron grimaces at the thought of Warbeck's crooning, which perpetually fills the house nowadays. After sifting through his closet, the only suitable thing Ron unearths is a sweater that his Mum had knitted for him a Christmas or two ago. He finds it baggier than he remembers when he tugs it on. He briefly flattens his shock of red hair and brushes his fingers against the stubble along his jaw. He does not bother to shave.

He mats down his hair for another few minutes before Apparating. Thick, grey cumulus clouds hang over the streets of London. He has Apparated outside of a dilapidated department store, and the weathered sign reads: Purge and Dowse, Ltd. The red-brick building is clearly abandoned, and most Muggles only give it a passing glance before dismissing the condemned building and carrying on. Ron glances nervously from side to side, his eyes peering about for reporters. Only Muggles, he thinks to himself.

He disappears through the display window. Ron finds it curious how empty St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries is these days. Though there are still several victims cradling limbs or giggling uncontrollably. There is even one person staring off dreamily into the distance, and Ron presumes he's a victim of a strong love potion. But it's notably quieter. Ron finds it slightly disconcerting, and stands there for a moment as if waiting for injured Aurors to file in. When he is greeted by quiet, Ron proceeds to the elevator. He's been here enough in the last couple of years to know where to go. This notion fills him with resigned melancholy. And now, of all people he's visited in St Mungo's, he has to visit his best friend. The-Boy-Who-Might-Not-Live.

When Ron enters the elevator, he finds himself soon in the company of a young wizard with tentacles springing from the sleeves of his robes. Ron gives him a sideways glance, but finds he is unwilling to start a conversation. Instead he stands quietly in his little corner of the elevator and thinks of anecdotes and topics for conversation he can use whilst he sits by Harry's bedside. Small-talk has never come easily to Ron, and yet he can't stand the long, drawn-out silences.

He waits quietly for his floor, Potions and Plant Poisoning. When the doors swing aside he emerges from the elevator, and finds that the halls are bustling with an unusual flurry of activity. Ron feels his stomach drop, and he feels sick down to his very core. The tapping of his feet are drowned out by the sounds of Healer's voices and the small crowd of people towards the end of the hallway. As he nears, Ron catches sight of Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. The odd couple clasp hands and both try to peer in through the doorway. Ron gives them a wave as he approaches, and Luna returns the wave. Neville nods his head in recognition. The Weasley can discern nothing from their neutral expressions.

He shoulders his way through the Healers and familiar faces. Before he can get to Harry's bed, Ron is intercepted.

Molly Weasley sweeps her son into her arms and kisses both his cheeks with fervor. "Mum…" he grumbles self-consciously. He's still just as embarrassed by her behavior as he was the day he boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. Mrs. Weasley takes no notice of her begrudging son, but instead pulls him into a bone-crushing embrace. From over his Mother's shoulder, Ron's eyes connect briefly with Hermione's. She is standing near Harry's bed, and Viktor Krum is behind her with a powerful hand on her shoulder. Ron purposefully avoids her gaze after that, feeling his insides clench painfully at the sight of the Quidditch star standing solemnly behind her. He thinks briefly of their failed engagement. We fight too much, Hermione had told him.

"Oh, Ronnie!" Mrs. Weasley finally releases him from the uncomfortable hug. Ron's face colors at the ruination of his name. Although, he thinks dully to himself, it's far better than Won-Won, which he had been dubbed by Lavender Brown during his Sixth Year at Hogwarts.

"What is it Mum?" Ron feels light. Although he asks, he already knows.

"It's Harry…he's finally woken up!"

And Mrs. Weasley sweeps up her son again. Ron is glad, because his Mum can't handle another loss, another death. He isn't entirely sure he could either. Ron is mainly glad, however, because now he keeps the person who will come and soak up Firewhiskey with him. He keeps the person who will listen to him when he swears off women and the person with whom to discuss the latest Quidditch standings, and selfishly, Ron is glad.

::

Ginny is elated. Harry leaves St. Mungo's a week after he wakes, and stays in Fred and George's old room. George has moved in with Angelina Johnson, leaving the room vacant. Harry tries to insist upon going back to his flat, but Mrs. Weasley keeps him in the Burrow and tends to him like a bird with a broken wing. Ginny is silently pleased with his imprisonment at the hands of her Mum. Even though Harry has been slightly dour towards her lately, and he's too fragile to do much of anything, it does little to deter her spirits. Her dreams of their future together, which had been tenuously hanging in the balance naught but a week ago, are now perfectly intact. She twirls about her room like a foolish little girl. A good mood permeates the Burrow, and it's entirely infectious. With the start of December, Mrs. Weasley even begins putting up Christmas decorations several weeks early.

Ginevra Weasley has dreamed of Harry Potter since she was a timid first year at Hogwarts, too terrified to speak to The Boy Who Lived. She had imagined her wedding dress, which she was fairly sure she had doodled on her Potions book, much to Severus Snape's chagrin. She had imagined children with mops of untidy black hair. She had imagined Harry deflowering her on their honeymoon. Ginny had always been a bit of a tomboy, but her daydreams were that of a definite woman. Her visions were filled with blissful futures of which she had planned every inch. Even down to the curtains and upholstery.

Her lips curve into a small, secretive smile as she saunters into the kitchen and pulls the Daily Prophet out of the bin. It is the first time she has even dared to read the cover of the Prophet in months. Harry is the headline, of course. HARRY POTTER OUT OF ST. MUNGO'S. She retreats to the sitting room with the paper and begins to nose through it. In the back she finds ads for houses and flats up for sale or rent. The pages are covered with moving pictures, giving a tour of each building up for sale. Using a quill, Ginny circles the ads that interest her, tucking her hair behind her ears as she bends studiously over the paper. She doesn't even notice Mrs. Weasley edge into the room, carrying two mugs of steaming tea.

"What are you up to?"

Ginny is shaken from her girlish daze. "Mum," she speaks with a womanly glow to her voice, "I guess I'm…" She gives another secretive smile. "I guess I'm looking at houses. I might ask Harry if he wants to move in together." Mrs. Weasley freezes for a moment before a genuine smile reaches her lips. She places the down the chipped, ancient mugs before springing upon her daughter and smattering her cheeks with maternal kiss. Then she began crushing her only daughter in a too-tight embrace. Ginny does not protest. She can only smile, dizzied with delight. Her mind is entrenched in the prospect of little Potters dashing through the halls of her mind.

::

Lucius Malfoy is a man who loves to be out and about. He has not taken kindly to hiding away indoors with naught but his wife to keep him company. He misses the London streets and Knockturn Alley, and he misses his connections. He can no longer stroll into a Quidditch game and know he is guaranteed tickets, and the shopkeepers along Diagon Alley no longer treat him with the utmost respect. Instead they turn their nose to him, and some even refuse to give him service. He is outraged when a Flourish and Blotts employee asks him to leave. He has half a mind to hex the heathen into oblivion, only to realize that he cannot. So instead he glowers at the man with murderous intent, turns on his heel, and leaves with an elegant sweep of his robes. In such a snide yet elegant way that only a Malfoy can achieve.

Lucius' hair is shorter than his usual preference. His head of soft, silvery hair had been sheared off completely when he entered Azkaban. Now it barely brushes his shoulders, and his receding hairline is becoming more and more apparent. His robes are more worn than his usual preference as well. They were once fine robes, and one of the few suitable ones he now owns. There is no money left to afford finery, but Lucius refuses to buy low-quality or secondhand robes like a Weasley. He is a veritable king forced to become a pauper. He avoids home and spends his time prowling around London, too ashamed to return to his wife. Not ashamed because he has let her down, but ashamed to see the state she has fallen into. Their home is barren and ready for sale, their clothes are shabbier than ever before, and they are not groomed as they used to be. As Lucius storms from Flourish and Blotts, still incensed, he does not notice the man that walks several paces behind him. Blonde hanks of hair flutter about Lucius' face as his feet slap with aggressive force against the cobblestone. He takes the turn to enter Knockturn Alley, which he knows well enough. The main way is dank and winding; numerous alleyways break off from the chief road. He is still being followed.

And when Lucius Malfoy is pushed forcefully into one of those alleyways that reek of piss, he is caught unwittingly between a cool stone wall and an assailant. He claws at the man and mutters several ineffective curses. If Lucius only had his wand, he could've thought of a thousand different ways to gut this man. To burn him from the inside out or pull his bowels out while he was still breathing. If only, if only. The man beats him until Lucius' figure folds over on itself. His fair hair is dirtied from the coagulating pile of muck he lands in.

When the man shouts Incendio, Lucius is resigned. He feels the flames consume him, and he can smell his own flesh and hair combusting in the flare. Lucius stumbles, a human torch illuminating the rats and the alley-cats and the sludge.

The man who set the fire flicks his wand once more. He stands to watch the burning figure for a moment, but then turns on his heel. And then he runs, his heavy, black robes dancing around him as he melts into the darkness of Knockturn Alley.

And then Lucius Malfoy, once illustrious mogul, curls in a blackened pile and knows no more.

::

Much to Ron's chagrin, Mrs. Weasley invites Hermione and Krum to stay for the holidays, and Hermione agrees. The pair now reside in a room two doors down the hall from Ron. He lies on his bed and watches the door sulkily, wondering what they are doing just two walls away from him. Even the idea of Hermione snogging the big brute is enough to make Ron thoroughly put off. He narrows his eyes at the doorway and finds himself plotting interesting ways in which to slay the famous Seeker. Meals are awkward now as Hermione sits snugly against his massive form. He talks animatedly to her, the way that Ron can remember from the Yule Ball. She is the only person that he speaks at length to. Most of the Weasley's are answered with nods, grunts, or the occasional 'yes' or 'no'. What does she see in this brutish half-wit, Ron ponders venomously.

As Christmas draws closer, George comes to visit with Angelina Johnson on his arm. She greets everyone with a genuine smile and a certain glow to her complexion. Using Extendable Ears, Ron soon find that she's pregnant. Eavesdropping is one of Ron's newest hobbies. There is little else to do in the house. He's mastered a Notice-Me-Not charm and finds the best corners of the Burrow to skulk in. He's caught Harry and Ginny fighting a few times, and Hermione and Krum snogging in the hallway once. Ron is fascinated by how quickly everyone is changing. And yet he seems to be a witness. He is just simply Ron. The same Ron who loves the Chudley Cannons and who is embarrassed by Mother. The same Ron who has never been much of a Keeper and who has never been particularly good at anything.

His days are spent hating Krum and missing Harry, who spends most of his time shut up in his room. Ron searches for ways to entertain to himself, and although he had scorned any kind of reading in his Hogwarts days, he's taken to books lately. Ron is lounging in the sitting room with a book on the Goblin Rebellions (which is actually an exciting subject when it isn't told by Professor Binns) when he hears voices rise from the kitchen. His curiosity is piqued, and he soundlessly sets down his book and rises from the loveseat. Hermione and Harry are in the kitchen, and their voices are becoming progressively louder. By the time Ron is within using range of his Extendable Ears, their voices are loud enough to discern without their aid.

"Harry! You have to finish your NEWTs; you just can't live off Sirius' gold!" Hermione's voice is pleading.

"It's none of your damned business!"

"I thought you wanted to be an Auror."

"I did." Harry falters.

"What do you think Dumbledore would say if he knew you hadn't taken them?"

"Just leave it alone, Hermione." Harry's tone is exasperated.

"Well you can't just sit around and feel sorry for yourself forever!" Hermione sounds like she's on the brink of tears, and she probably is. Her heels clatter against the floor as she stamps away—since when did she wear heels?—fed up with Harry. Before Ron can retreat back to the sitting room she brushes past him. She pauses, her eyes red and jaw clenching painfully. She is debating what to say to him.

"Hey, Ron," she says in a weak voice.

Every cruel thought that Ron has ever had about Krum floats to the surface of his brain. The furious dragon in his chest is seething, insisting that he voice them. He can conjure up a thousand ways to make her cry and thousand more to make her storm away in a flurry of anger. He opens his mouth and the dragon claws at his throat. Her eyes are peering out expectantly to him. His chest is burning.

"Hey, Hermione," he gives her a half-hearted smile. "Ignore Harry; he's being a complete prat." The dragon thrashes against his ribs as if it is a cage and howls in anger, but he ignores it.

"Thanks," Hermione says with her eyes still on him. She desperately craves the reassurance.

"I've got to get back," Ron motions awkwardly to the sitting room, "to, ah, my book."

"Your book? What are you reading?" Hermione looks pleasantly startled. Color returns to her face.

"'The Secrets of the Goblin Rebellion' by Miranda Grimshaw." Ron is embarrassed as Hermione eyes him with pride.

"It's a great book," she says nodding. Her jaw is now unclenched and her tone is steadier than it has been.

"It's actually pretty interesting when it's not Professor Binns." Hermione laughs. Ron feels like a child again, a young boy trying to impress his crush. He is lost hopelessly in the idea of Hermione as she trails behind him into the sitting room.

Everybody is changing. But only Ron is moving backwards.

::


End file.
